Only a Moment
by Miss Becky
Summary: Chapter 7 up! Missing moments from the film.
1. After Ajedrez

Only a Moment

Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez owns Sands and all things related to him. I'm just a poor working stiff trying to amuse myself.

Rating: A hard PG-13 for swearing

Summary: A "missing moment" from the film, after Sands kills Ajedrez.

Author's Note: Hi everybody! I've missed you all. g

****

Dying was not fun.

You'd think, after all the times he had dealt out death, that he would have known that. But watching people die was not at all the same thing as having it happen to you. Some of those people even made it look easy. Bullet to the head, hey, not much required of you there, just fall down and boom, you're dead. Dying by inches, on the other hand, was hard work.

And it was not fun.

Oh yeah, and it hurt. Like a motherfucker. Strangely, not his eyes – what eyes, fuckmook? – but the gunshot wounds. Three holes in his body that should not be there, all of them screaming with loud tinny voices that this wasn't right this hurt this fucking hurt!

At least he had taken her with him. That bitch, that fucking beautiful bitch. Ajedrez. He knew it had been her idea to blind him. Why would Barillo want such a thing? Just shoot the spy and be done with it. No, this had Ajedrez's signature all over it. 

He wished, oh how he wished, that he could have seen the look on her face when she realized he had killed her. That would have been worth losing his eyes for. Just to see that look.

The sounds of gunfire and screaming were still there, somewhere in the distance. For a time he had worried that those things were getting closer, but they didn't seem to be. That was good. Dying in the dust of a stupid shitty little Mexican town was bad enough, but for everyone to see it would be infinitely worse.

He wondered vaguely about the coup. Who was winning. What kind of ruler Marquez would be. El Mariachi was probably dead by now, and that meant nothing stood between Marquez and the top spot.

And all that money? Dust in the wind, baby.

The pains in his body chose that moment to rise up and demand his attention. A breathless whine escaped his throat. Oh Christ, but it hurt. Of all the ways he had imagined dying over the years – thinking of his own death had never frightened him – this was not one he had ever considered. This excruciatingly slow, utterly humiliating death.

His fingers scrabbled at the dust. Maybe he should write an epitaph. No one else would. What could he say? Good-bye, cruel world? Eat at Joe's? Go fuck yourself?

A cracked smile curved his mouth.

Faraway, came a sound. Not gunshots, or screaming or swearing – the people of this town were surprisingly vocal in their curses – but something else. Something higher-pitched. Something clear. Pure.

A bell.

Sweet Christ in heaven, it was the kid. The kid on the bike.

The kid had come back.

Suddenly, dying didn't seem like an option anymore. Was he really going to just lie here and bleed to death without protest?

That was a big "fuck no."

Gathering his strength, he raised his hand high into the air. Over here, kid. Get your ass over here.

Help me up. I've got a coup to follow. A country to fuck over in return for what's been done to me. Balance to restore. Same old song and dance, can you dig it?

Sheldon Sands could dig it.

*****


	2. After the Bullfight

Only a Moment

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Rating: PG-13

Summary: After the bullfight.

****

__

You want to know the secret to winning the game? Creative sportsmanship.

The crowd was going wild, scattered boos mingled with the screams and applause. Sands reached down and tapped Cucuy on the shoulder. "Go collect."

Cucuy, obedient goon that he was, shuffled off to do just that.

Nicholas, El Presidente's closest adviser and betrayer, just stared at him. The man was obviously still trying to process what had just happened.

Sands smirked. He always enjoyed the moment when people realized they were utterly outsmarted. The moment when they understood that they had no idea who they were dealing with. Half the fun of fucking with someone was that moment of discovery.

In the ring, the matador lay groaning in the dirt. The bull stalked around at the far end, snorting at the men who were approaching it. One of them held a tranquilizer gun. The barrel looked big enough to hold a dart capable of paralyzing an elephant. Other men ran back and forth, some headed for the matador, others clearly with no idea what the hell they were doing.

It was chaos down there in the ring, and it was all due to him. Sands felt his smirk become a grin. He never stopped enjoying the rush that came from setting things in motion. 

__

I throw shapes. I set them up, and watch them fall.

"I think we should go," Nicholas said nervously. He was a nervous little man, all twitchy. He made the perfect rat, really. Twitchy, and traitorous. Brilliant.

"Stay," Sands said. It would be a while before Cucuy came back with the money, anyway.

Money. It all came back to money, didn't it? The ultimate freedom. The chance to slip away and go wherever he wanted, become whoever he wanted.

He was thinking about asking Ajedrez to come with him. She was beautiful, and a good fuck. He hadn't yet made up his mind though. Saddling himself with another person wasn't the best way to escape notice from the world.

In a way it was almost a shame that he wouldn't be around to watch it all fall apart. But the plan called for him to be long gone by the time Mexico realized what had happened to her. Marquez would take control, and Sands would be sitting on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean, drinking rum and ogling the local girls.

Screw the CIA. Screw everyone.

This was all about killing two birds (and one President) with one stone. Restore the balance to Mexico, and make his own escape. It was a perfect plan. Nothing would go wrong.

He was sure of it.

*****

Author's Note: Okay, I hadn't planned to write this one. It just sort of happened. I find my mind drifting back to Sands at odd moments.

So here's my request to you all. What would you like to see next? Are there any other moments in the film you'd like me to write about? Let me know, either in a review or an e-mail to beckyg19@yahoo.com, and I'll see about writing it. 


	3. Before the Gunfight

Only a Moment  
  
Before the Gunfight  
  
Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez owns them, not me.  
  
Thanks to Lunatic for the suggestion.  
  
****  
  
Given the fact that he was now missing two eyes, and that an unappetizing mix of blood and vitreous fluid was running down his face, Sands felt pretty good. Surprisingly so.  
  
Fires burned in the plaza. He could hear the flames, and smell the rich odor of burning. People were shouting and screaming in the distance, and gunshots and explosions punctuated the afternoon. It was a glorious chaos, but sadly, he was going to have skip it.  
  
Right now he had two men to kill.  
  
The kid had said they were right in front of him. They could be fifty feet away, or five, for all he knew. Wired with plastic explosives, or stark naked. Snarling in hatred or laughing in derision.  
  
He would never know. For the rest of his life, he was going to be dependent on other people to tell him what was happening around him.  
  
Like the kid.  
  
The kid, who was still there. He knew it.  
  
That was unacceptable. The chances of him surviving the coming gunfight were a zillion to one, but there was still a chance. And that meant he had to plan ahead. If he survived, he would need someone to guide him.  
  
Like the kid.  
  
He cocked his head to one side. "I don't hear you running."  
  
The kid lingered for a second, then took off. Little feet, the pitter-patter of expensive American sneakers in the dust. Kid sold bubble-gum for money. Probably his dad sold drugs for money. Kid was just getting started, working on his salesmanship skills.  
  
Now it was just him and the thugs.  
  
And only one chance of getting out of this alive. He had to force them to make a sound. Something to tell him where they were. Screaming would be preferable, but he couldn't see - oh god couldn't see - how he could accomplish that, so there was only one other choice.  
  
Laughter.  
  
He had to find a way to make them laugh at him - if they weren't already, that was. If they believed him a fool, they would lower their guard a little. They would think he was easy prey, just another victim. They would maybe toy with him, taunting him before killing him.  
  
Not that he was going to give them that chance. All he needed was that first laugh. Just that one sound. He was a good shot. A damn good shot. Who needed eyes? Not him.  
  
Just one laugh. That was all he needed.  
  
Calmly, slowly, he drew one of his guns. It was showtime.  
  
*****  
  
Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who's written with suggestions! I'm working on new little ficlets about them, and I'll post them as soon as I get them written. 


	4. In the Cantina

Only a Moment

In the Cantina

Disclaimer: Not mine. 

Thanks to Demonic Little Girl, Rainjewel, and Blank for the thoughts on this one.

****

So this was the infamous El Mariachi.

He sure wasn't much to look at, Sands thought. Caveman brow, glowering eyes, frowning mouth. Thick, peasant's fingers. Clearly not very intelligent.

He hooked his thumbs into the beltloops on his jeans. Rocked back on his heels. He was going to be really pissed off at Belini if this mariachi guy wasn't up to snuff.

Picking the right man for the job was very important. Sands was proud of his ability to look at a man and figure him out mere seconds later. Looking at El Mariachi now, he thought El would do just fine. The man's lack of imagination would actually work for him. Anyone else might be bothered by pangs of conscience at the thought of letting his beloved El Presidente die. Not El Mariachi. Sands suspected things like guilty consciences didn't really affect that dour countenance.

That was good. He needed someone who would get the job done quickly and efficiently. And in that field, the mariachi had perfect qualifications. Marquez had killed his wife and kid. Who better, then, to kill Marquez?

It was beautiful. It was balance. Marquez kills mariachi. Mariachi kills Marquez. You couldn't get much better than that.

And on second glance, Sands had to revise his opinion. The mariachi was not bad-looking, in his own dark Mexican way. That was even better. Dumb and good-looking. Brilliant. Nobody would suspect him. He could maneuver his way through El Presidente's entourage or whatever his plan would be, and no one would know a thing. 

He nodded to himself. Yes. Belini had been right. El Mariachi – what the hell was his real name anyway? – was the perfect choice for this operation.

Because Marquez was no fool. No man attained the rank of General in the Mexican army without honing his survival skills. El Mariachi might be good, but he would not be good enough.

Marquez would kill El Presidente. Good.

El Mariachi would kill Marquez. Better.

Marquez would kill El Mariachi, finishing what he had started in some no-name town several years ago.

Best.

And everything achieved balance. 

Doing his best to make sure the mariachi did not know he was laughing inside, Sands sat down and began the meeting.

*****


	5. Take the Money and Run

Only a Moment

Take the Money and Run

Disclaimer: You know the drill.

Thanks to siddhe_ranma for the idea.

This little moment takes place within the world of my trilogy. It is when Belinda Harrison, Sands' superior officer, tells him about the coup. They are at a restaurant in Mexico City, having lunch.

****

So Barillo was paying Marquez to kill the President.

How interesting.

The whos and whys did not really matter. The CIA expected him to stop the coup, and that too did not matter. What mattered was the payoff money.

Twenty million pesos.

The words floated in the air between them.

Twenty million pesos.

A man could do a hell of a lot with that kind of money. He could disappear to wherever he wanted. No one would ever find him.

El Presidente would die, there was no question about that. He was a good man, but he was too good. The balance had been lost the moment he had stepped into power. Killing him would restore that balance.

But the money?

Sands thought he would maybe do a little coup of his own. Good-bye Mexico, hello freedom.

"Okay," he said. "I'll see what I can do."

Belinda Harrison smiled. "I knew I could count on you."

He permitted himself to smile back. Stupid bitch. She didn't know the first thing about him, did she?

Some opportunities were just too good to pass up. This was most definitely one of them. With that money he could say "Screw you" to everyone. The world was largely populated by fucking idiots. Here was his chance to flip them all the finger.

He wanted out. Spying wasn't fun anymore. He was bored. And he could do more to restore the balance and satisfy the bloodlust all on his own. Creating chaos on a grand scale was fun sometimes, but it was just too much work. He didn't like working. He liked setting things up and watching it all fall apart.

Watching was fun. 

With twenty million pesos, he could sit back and watch anything he wanted.

It was a liberating thought. He was suddenly in a good mood.

He didn't even mind when Bel left, and stuck him with the check.

*****


	6. A Bike Ride

Only a Moment

A Bike Ride

Disclaimer: Don't look at me. I don't own them. Robert Rodriguez does.

Thanks to Blank for this idea.

****

The Day of the Dead was always fun. If you were a kid, that is. If you were an adult it meant crying and singing and talking in maudlin voices about lost loved ones. If you were a kid it meant a day off of school, and a chance to ride around town with no one to stop you.

He wanted to see the parade. His parents were walking, singing to their daughter, his youngest sister. She had died in the cradle in February. He had cried, but not much. In a way he barely understood, he had realized that one less child in the house meant more food for everyone.

Not many people came to Mexico in November. It was hard to sell enough to make decent money. The American señor had given him a lot of money, but that was already gone, spent on food and shoes for his oldest brother Pablo.

So he was hoping to hang out on the fringes of the parade today. Maybe as the people turned away and started to head back home, they would want to buy some bubble gum. You never knew.

The parade was awfully loud this year. The wailing sounded almost like real screaming. And the firecrackers were louder than they ever had been.

They sounded like gunshots.

Maybe he wouldn't go to the parade this year. Suddenly it didn't seem like such a good idea. Maybe he would just go home, instead.

He turned around and began pedaling back the way he had come.

A man stepped out from one of the buildings to his right. He walked funny, sort of staggering, like he was drunk, or hurt. He held his hands in front of him, like he couldn't see where he was going. The boy understood this. The day was bright, and the buildings were dim, and sometimes it took a while for his eyes to adjust to the difference. It was a good thing the man had stopped before walking out onto the street.

The man was dressed in black and he was wearing sunglasses. There was something on his face. Something red.

Suddenly going home sounded like a very good thing to do.

A very good thing.

He started pedaling faster. He dinged the bell to warn the man he was coming.

The man's head whipped around, and one hand reached out.

For him.

*****


	7. A Chance Meeting

Only a Moment

A "Chance" Meeting

Disclaimer: Do I really have to say it?

Thanks to Bainpeth for this one.

****

Whoever she was, she was beautiful. Long dark hair, deep dark eyes, big tits, and legs to die for.

Sands had seen her around now for exactly forty-nine days.

On fifteen of those days, she had made eye contact.

On six of those times, she had smiled.

Five of those six had been in the last eight days.

Whoever she was, she was beautiful. And she was obviously government. Sands could spot another spook a mile away. The only question was, which government?

She intrigued him. He had never been big on sharing, but if she could be persuaded to tell what information she had, he would be that much more ahead of the game. Surveilling the Barillo cartel was not as easy as he had first thought it would be. Taking the time to butter her up could well be worth it.

She looked like she would be great in bed, too. Yet another fringe benefit.

The bartender didn't know her real name. Ajedrez, he called her.

Sands knew his Spanish. Her name meant "chess." Clearly not her real name. She was obviously an amateur. Only an amateur went to all the trouble of coming up with fake identities. He had long ago decided that the best way to hide was to stay in plain view. What could be dangerous about an obvious American tourist?

But she used a fake name. Nothing else about her seemed fake, though. Certainly not her chest.

On this particular night, they were in a cantina. She sat at one corner of the bar, where she could look out at the whole room. He was at a table on the side of the room, his back to the wall. He had watched her the whole time he had been eating. 

She finished her drink and set the glass down on the bar. She looked up and saw him staring at her.

She smiled.

Sands smirked to himself. There it was. His invitation.

He took one last swallow of his tequila and stood up. He walked over to the bar and sat down beside her. "Agent Ajedrez?"

She went very pale, and although his expression did not change, inside he was jumping up and down with glee. He had her. Two seconds into the conversation, and he had her. For someone whose name meant chess, she didn't play the game very well.

He intended to show her how it was done. When he was finished with her, she wouldn't know what had hit her.

She would never have seen him coming.

****


End file.
